Harold Potter and the Stoned Sorcerer
by McDonaldMcTrump
Summary: A black-comedy parody of the original Harry Potter series. Rated M for... some stuff, including funny violence, funny jokes, and funny jokes that shouldn't be funny. If you are offended by this book, please put it down and step outside, unless you are on a plane.
1. Chapter 1: A Boy Named Harold

**Chapter 1: A Boy Named Harold**

It was a dreary Tuesday, the kind that always seemed to make dull the entire atmosphere. The grey sky lazily stretched across the city of London like a vast unmoving ocean. A typical morning fog covered the houses like a blanket, muffling any sign of liveliness. Humans and birds alike melted into the landscape as they went about their day, doing their business, working closer to their death, step by step. Pursuing a happiness that they did not know how to obtain, existing solely due to the reason that they already did. This was the sort of lives that the citizens led.

On a particular street in a particular suburb of London, there lived a small boy. His name was Harold Potter. He was eleven years old, and his parents had died when he was very small. He now lived in the house of his uncle and aunt, and he had never been far from it.

Now, he woke to the sound of his cousin Dudley, a pudgy, morbidly obese boy, banging on the door of his room. "Get up, Potter," Dudley grunted excitedly. "I've just gotten my medieval torture rack in the mail, and I need a little shrimp to test it on." Dudley Dougherty, as can be seen, was not a very pleasant boy. Standing at the same height as Harold but weighing more than twice as much, his imposing figure now loomed in the doorway, which he had thrown open. His piggy eyes spun in his red face with excitement, partly a result of his extra chromosome, and partly due to him having just eaten five packs of candy. Seeing no response from his cousin, Dudley brought up his pudgy foot and kicked Harold in the side as hard as he could. "I said GET UP!" he shouted.

His victim, and the subject of our story, Harold sharply contrasted with his disabled cousin in every possible area. Whereas Dudley weighed the same amount as a grown man, Harold, as a result of his constant abuse and malnourishment, was as thin as a stick. His ribcage could be seen through his shirt, and his sunken, hollow cheeks often earned him pity from passerby. While Dudley unfortunately suffered from Down syndrome, autism, and leukemia, Harold surprisingly had no genetic disorders. His tousled dark hair and intensely green eyes contrasted Dudley's flaxen hair and beady, black eyes. Harold also had a scar, one in the shape of a lightning bolt on his forehead. He had many other scars, of course, from being beaten regularly by his uncle Vinny, but this one was the only one that looked heroic, in his opinion. It was as if he had gotten scarred fighting an ancient evil who had murdered his parents! If only…

This was what Harold had been dreaming when Dudley had rudely interrupted him with his foot. He was awakened by the sensation of falling. He was falling indeed. Off his bed, in fact. It seemed Dudley had succeeded with his mission of torturing his cousin for the day, because Harold could not dream anymore. He could not talk anymore. He could not even breathe anymore, since his ribcage, weak with lack of calcium, had collapsed under his cousin's vicious assault, crushing his lungs. Almost unconscious with the pain, Harold lay on the floor of his bedroom at his mortal enemy's feet, his whole body trembling with each breath.

"Uh oh," Dudley said dimwittedly, looking at the broken body of his cousin in astonishment. "I told you to get up, Potter. This is what happens when you don't eat your meat. You get weak. Like a shrimp." Dudley smiled cruelly, enjoying the suffering Harold was going through. He wondered if he should keep hitting the little boy in front of him. Should he?

A minute passed, Harold getting weaker and weaker, Dudley still trying to make a very important decision. Finally, no, he decided. If Harold died, undoubtedly he would not have anyone else to torture. Keeping him alive was a priority now. "Momma!" He called. "Dadda! Harold's having a seizure again!"

_Boom. Boom. Boom._

Heavy footfalls shook the house of the Dougherties. Dust rained down from the ceiling as the foundations creaked with every step this unknown person took. Finally, the heavy breathing stopped at the doorway. For moment, Harold's room became dark, as a massive shadow blocked the doorway. This huge person was Harold's aunt.

To call Patty Dougherty a woman is an overstatement. When one thinks of the word "woman," one often pictures a person with long hair, moderately large in the breast and hips. Each person's image of a woman differs according to their viewpoint. This is completely normal. However, it is guaranteed that when asked to picture a woman, no living person in Britain will picture a bowling ball. This is not normal. But this was exactly what Patty Dougherty was. Like a bowling ball, she was massively round, weighing as much as two grown men. Like a bowling ball, she had three holes, which her husband often put his fingers into. And she was pink. The color of her skin stood out like a pink bowling ball in a haystack. Patty's head was an enormous blob, which sometimes blinked and nodded in recognition of food. Out of it grew wispy pink pair, which she had dyed. Her body was a mountain of spam, gigantic and flabby.

In all fairness, however, it should be said that we must not judge Patty Dougherty, nor any other person in this book, by their appearance. Having the weight of two morbidly obese women does not say anything about one's temperament. If Harold's aunt weighed 120 pounds instead of 400, if she had brown curly locks instead of pink strings, and if she did not have pink skin, we would not so quickly judge her personality. If Mrs. Dougherty were Emma Watson, we readers would hesitate to label her as a lazy slob who ate a whole tub of ice cream a day; enchanted, we would grow to love the character and cherish every moment with her.

However, Aunt Patty was not Emma Watson. She did not remotely resemble Emma Watson at all. In fact, her personality wasn't like Emma Watson, either. Patty was an evil, greedy, avaricious, vain, gluttonous, mean person. And like his mother, Dudley was an evil, greedy, avaricious, vain, gluttonous, mean child. So, like the actions of her son, Harold's aunt did what she thought was best for her precious little nephew.

"GET UP, YOU LAZY IGNORANT CRETIN," she shouted. She demonstrated her intense matriarchal love by prodding Harold further with her foot. Harold screamed a guttural cry of pain and fear, his once childish face contorted by the hate he felt for the person he now saw. Her face turning scarlet in anger at his outburst, Patty Dougherty screamed, "DON'T YOU TAKE THAT TONE WITH ME, YOUNG MAN!" Harold heard nothing. He was already unconscious. Aunt Patty stormed off to the kitchen. The words "I'm going to find a knife to finish him off for good, that wretched little midget," could be heard from a distance.

"Uh oh," Dudley whispered. "My momma's coming back with a knife, you hear? You gotta hide, Potter, or you's gonna die for sure today." Harold did not reply. He was crossing the border between life and heaven, now seeking that blissful peace that he had striven after for 11 long years. "DADDA!" Dudley yelled. "Momma's mad at Potter again!"

_Boom. Boom. Boom._

A small, ferrety man appeared in the doorway. His shifty eyes widened at the sight of Harold, his nephew, living out the last of his life on the ground in his room under the stairs. His nimble hands twitched with fear as he pictured the amount of paperwork he would have to fill out if there was a death in his house. "Quick, boy," he ordered Dudley. "Carry the body outside and hide it in the shed."

Vinny Dougherty, Harold's uncle, was not a nice man either, similar to his wife and son. His receding hairline and his sparse, greasy hair accentuated his harsh features. He constantly wore an expression of disgust, as if he were not satisfied with the world, society, and his family. He was a carrier of many sexually transmitted diseases, including herpes, AIDS, cancer, and Ebola, which had isolated him from society early on in his life. Spurned by his fellows, rejected by multiple women, he had finally set up a family in the suburbs only to have his only child, Dudley, ravaged by multiple disabilities. That was what drove Vinny Dougherty over the edge. Now, he did not care about his future. He did not care about his son. All he cared about was the pleasure he gained from drinking, smoking, eating bacon, and beating his nephew, Harold. Although like Dudley, he mourned the loss of a prospective victim, unlike his son, his was a tiny bit smarter. _If Harold dies, and the police hear about it,_ he thought, _I'll go to prison. And if I go to prison, I don't get to beat Harold anymore. I don't even get to drink, smoke, or eat bacon anymore! _

It was because of these reasons that Uncle Vinny decided to leave his nephew in the garden shed to die. Sure, he had some regrets. That was true. "It was sure fun beating you, kid," he added. "My own son's too fat, so he don't feel it. But this is for the greater good, ya know? A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do." Tears began rolling down Mr. Dougherty's face. "A-and y-your scar… I couldn't leave a mark on you that was bigger. Th-that motivated me, kid. I tried everything. A two-by-four… A shovel… a cucumber… But you never even flinched," Uncle Vinny sobbed. "I feel… unfulfilled." With trembling hands, he laid his nephew in his garden shed. "You were like the son I never got to hit," he said. "Goodbye, old friend." He closed the door.

And so it was that Harold Potter started the best day of his life in a musty shed, his ribs broken, struggling for each breath to keep himself alive. His limp body lay on top of the lawn mower, next to the hoes and rakes. Around him, daily life continued around the house of the Dougherties. Even when he finally came to, his weak arm strength was not enough to open the shed door. Desperate, Harold screamed for help until his voice was raw, yet no one came. He pounded on the door weakly, his fist getting weaker and weaker with each hit against the door. After what seemed like hours, he resigned himself to his fate. He began to imagine, what would have happened if his parents had still been alive, what if he was special, what if there was a whole new world waiting for him just outside the door…

He closed his eyes…

_BOOM. BOOM. BOOM._


	2. Chapter 2: You're a Wizard, Harold

**Chapter 2: You're a Wizard, Harold**

Harold forced open his droopy eyelids, surprised by the sudden turn of events. Small bits of wood rained down on his prostrate body as the Dougherties' shed shook violently. He was very confused.

_Boom. Boom. Boom._

Shouldn't he be in heaven by now? Shouldn't there be the many choirs of flying babies singing Christmas songs, flying over a pavement made out of chocolate? Shouldn't his 72 virgins be waiting for him in a huge castle made of gold, overlooking a lake of fire where he could watch Danny, Uncle Vinny, and Aunt Patty devoured slowly by a pit bull-piranha hybrid? And also, where was the Xbox 360 where he could play the game called Fortnite all day long?

_Harold, being homeschooled, homeworked, homeabused, and homebeaten by his family, had fortunately never experienced the pop-culture phenomenon and disease called Fortnite. He never will either, if all goes right with this story. Even if he is bullied and harassed, and also has his ribs broken a few more times, he will **never **get around to playing Fortnite._

This all didn't make any sense to Harold. He scratched his head, or at least tried to, what with his ribs being broken and him going into cardiac arrest and all. He thought for a moment, utilizing his one advantage over his cousin, which was the lack of an extra chromosome, to great extent. Finally, he got it! This was Harold's hypothesis, and a rather neat one at that:

_A. __In heaven, there are 72 virgins waiting for you._

_B. __I do not see my 72 virgins waiting for me._

_C. __Therefore, I am not in heaven._

"I did it!" Harold shouted with exuberant joy. "I finally became a philosopher! All my life has led up to this moment, and now, I can have one last moment of happiness before I die!" The little boy raised his limp arms towards the sky in triumph. He thrashed his numb legs about in a sort of Irish jig, knocking over a rake in the process. He imagined a party hat was on his head, and he quietly began to celebrate. Very quietly, because he was kind of dying at the moment.

_RRRIPPPPPPPP…_

Harold's happiness, however, was interrupted by a peculiar event, in which the door of the shed was ripped off its hinges from the outside, flying into the Dougherties' garden and crushing Uncle Vinny's notorious cucumbers and eggplants. Irritated, our protagonist looked up to see what had seemed to him a peaceful death. "Why can't I ever just DIE?" he screamed in irritation. With his limp leg he kicked a shovel, which promptly dropped on top of his stomach. Now, Harold screamed in pain, rather than anger. The agony was like if you had broken ribs from someone kicking you repeatedly, when you were thrown in a garden shed for a while, then a gardening implement fell on you. Which is, precisely, what had happened to Harold.

Harold's pain wasn't the concern, however. More important was who, or _what, _had ripped the hinges off the door with such strength as to break the cast-iron locks that held it shut. Harold slowly turned his eyes up. And up. And up.

The figure that now stood in the open doorway was more animal than man. A great mane of shaggy brown hair and whiskers framed a ruddy face as round as the moon. Two closely set, brown eyes bulged out from either side of a tomato-like nose. The most remarkable aspect of this man was not his Wookie-like features, however; it was his size. This beast of a man was as tall as two grown men, and about 3 times as wide. His prosperous belly dwarfed Danny and Patty by comparison, which was not an easy feat. Both of the latter had the body of a diabetic American injected with coconut oil after a shopping spree at Wal-Mart.

"Hagrid's the name," the monstrous man grunted, extending a hand towards the young boy. "And yeh mus' be Harold."

Harold blinked. He never thought he'd see the day when he set his eyes upon a person heftier than his loving, caring and matriarchal aunt, Patty. This was due to the fact that in order to be larger than the woman, one would have to be a either a whale or Jack Black. The person in front of his eyes exceeded all expectations, however. Dumbfounded, Harold weakly took Hagrid's hand.

"H-H-Harold Potter," he stammered. "Pleased to meet you. Please don't stuff an eggplant up my butt."

"Yeh haven't seen anything yet, boy," Hagrid growled. Still grabbing onto Harold's hand with a viselike grip, he dropped the huge satchel he had been carrying and pulled out a pink umbrella. "Now, this won' hurt yeh a bit, so don't think about resisting."

Harold was a very scared boy now. His face paled. His limbs shook uncontrollably. His pupils dilated in fear. He broke out in sweat in his most private places. He was deathly afraid- afraid of the pink umbrella which his savior now held in his hand. _That umbrella's too big, _he thought. _Cucumbers, pickles, eggplants, even, I'm used to because of uncle Vinny, but that pink umbrella's got to be at least two feet long._

"P-Please, sir, don't use that umbrella on me," Harold begged. "I kind of want to be able to walk for a week. Also, my Uncle Vinny doesn't want my anal cavity to be ruptured, so you should probably talk to him first…"

"What're yeh sayin', boy?" Hagrid grunted. "Now hold still, and this'll be over in a minute." With this, he pinned Harold down with a giant meaty paw. With his other hand, he gripped his pink umbrella tightly, preparing to ram it into Harold's feeble body…

"SCROFULA NOMORIMUS!" Hagrid yelled.

All of a sudden, Harold felt a tingling in his private-place. It was not a good sort of tingling. He felt uncomfortable with it, and heaven knows he didn't give his consent for Hagrid to give him a tingling in his private-place. This was the 20th century! Little eleven-year old boys like Harold should be able to quietly die in garden sheds, not be rudely interrupted and sexually harassed by a great shaggy beastly man who could probably split them in half! This is an outrage. You, the reader, have a duty to call the cops now, in order to report this cruel man from getting away with this heinous atrocity…

Well, to be fair, and also to save our dear Hagrid from being labeled a pedophile, it must be said that he didn't feel a tingling **only **in his private-place. He felt it all around his body, actually. He felt really good, actually. Harold couldn't describe the feeling, but it was like when you get your ribs broken and left to die in the shed, then a weird big man rescues you, then you think you're going to get raped by the weird man, then he actually heals your broken ribs by pointing his umbrella at you, and also magically fills up your stomach with food…

Oh. That's exactly what happened.

Anyways, Harry soon discovered that he could stand, and walk, and breathe, and also that he couldn't feel his ribs for the first time in 8 years. He looked up at Hagrid in astonishment. How could a crude man who had probably never even finished middle school be able to fix his ribs better than any doctor could? This didn't make any sense.

"Yeh don't know how many times I've tried to find yeh, lad," Hagrid grunted. Harold smelled decaying fish as the giant man's breath washed over him like a wave. It took everything he had left in order to keep himself from vomiting. "Now, this might come as a bit o' a shock to yeh, but-"

"Am I a wizard?" Harold asked incredulously. "Will I eventually get a pink umbrella, and learn how to stuff it into my anus?" Harold very dearly hoped the answer to that question was yes, because since he was a very adventurous boy, he liked to take many risks and push his body to its limits. "Well, if I can't get an umbrella, maybe you'll do, Hagrid," Harold suggested, lowering his voice seductively and placing his hand on the big man's arm.

Hagrid was surprised. No one had ever before _voluntarily _offered him sexual services. Well, not since the sixth grade, when Maddison Parker had come up to him behind the school's bleachers wearing nothing but a blouse and a gray, very sensible dress that covered her feet. "Hey big guy, want to see my ankles?" She had asked, hiking up the coarse fabric of her skirt about two inches. Hagrid would forever remember that moment, and he even kept a fully-automated doll of Maddison in his shack! To this day, he kept the walls of his dwelling painted Heliotrope-gray, #8DA3A0, which he bought from Sherwin-Williams paints in Diagon Alley.

This was a thing of the past, however. What was more important was the present, where a young, handsome boy was making sexual advances toward him. Tears began to pool in his beetle-clack eyes, while he seriously began to consider taking Harry up on his offer. However, he thought about how angry his employer and father-figure would be if Harold turned up with his anal cavity ruptured. He finally decided that the brief pleasure he would get would not be worth the consequences.

"Yer a wizard, Harold," Hagrid announced, brushing off the boy's hand. "Yer parents were wizards, so yer a wizard. Yeh'll get an owl, a wooden wand that yeh can stick up yer butt, although that might be a bit small, and even a broomstick. Ain't that nice, lad?"

Harold thought about it for a while. _Well, an eleven-inch wand **is **kind of small, _he conjectured. _But I'm going to be a wizard! There'll be owls and broomsticks! And also tentacled plants! I haven't tried **that **before… _At this point, Harold ascertained, the disadvantage of not having any cucumbers or eggplants nearby was heavily outweighed by the fact that he would get to wave his wand around and do magical stuff.

"It's decided," he announced. "I'm going to become a wizard."

Twenty minutes later, the Dougherties were quietly enjoying a nutritious dinner of five McDonald's hamburgers and a gallon of coke. For each person. As they chowed down like pigs in Death Row eating their last meal, the back door suddenly burst open, kicked clear off its hinges. It slammed into the dining table, showering food upon the stunned family.

"Time to die, motherf**kers," Harold said.


End file.
